wildcat

I'm sorry, I know, I'm defective, I do not want a pet. Well, actually, I could handle a fish or a lizard of some kind, an amphibian. Just fine. I do not want a cat, or a dog. I don't not want a cutesie little bunny wabbit or a itsy-bitsy mouse. I know, I'm defective. I know this, I hear this on an almost daily basis: you didn't grow up with any pets? And they cluck their little tongues and say what a hard life I must have had. I did not grow up with any pets. I do not want a cat, I'm allergic, there's no way of predicting. I'm not going to go out of my way to feel ill when I'm at home. I do not want a dog, I do not like the smell of dog. I like animals just fine, feel good about protecting them and animal rights, but I do not want to have one around me. Animals and I live in two seperate worlds and we know it. I like other people's pets; this is the way most people feel about children, when they're someone else's hey - that's great! So cute.

I'm not some inhuman monster although I know at least one or two of you is thinking it, thinking oh my god, he doesn't want a puppy around - but I don't, see. I like not having fur on everything. I know very well that I'm too much like Miranda and that what's even worse is that I'm making television references about it. I could actually see myself with a kid, I can very well see myself with a kid in ten years, maybe sooner. Really. I could have a kid and I'd probably love it, even the stupid three o'clock feedings, because I'd already be up working on a novel, and failing miserably at getting published. But I'd read her Margaret Atwood stories at bedtime, or Lorrie Moore, or I'd read him my own stories. I'd bring home books of Dennis Lee poems and I'd teach the kid the appropriate times to cuss ("Whenever," I'd say, "The Man is getting you down.") I could have a kid, one day, when I'm ready and not quaking with terror at the thought of screwing that kid's head up.

But cats make me sneeze and my eyes get all puffy. Can't breathe. And there's this whole business with shedding, not fond of that, I have enough of a time cleaning up after myself, my lover, and this hypothetical imaginary small child. Who would probably be named something like Antimony or Sophie or bloody Maximillion, and grow up hating me for ever picking such a name. Sure I get lonely sometimes and want to cuddle, but when I'm actually alone I just throw on a blanket and suck it up. Occasionally, I want to have a drink after a hard day of writing or not writing and lord help everybody if I have writer's block. Plus, honestly - I have the lover and the imaginary child type entity (I'd name him Cthulhu), there would be cuddles.

I know I'm defective. I'm too cynical, sarcastic, I don't like doing dishes, I don't want a cute puppy, I'm too cavalier about other people's religious beliefs and I really need to work on myself. I'm a know-it-all. I'm not going to hit enlightenment in this life. I'm barely one step closer. I worry about my hair too much, and am prone to spending money irresponsibly. I have not yet converted to a full vegetarian diet, I still eat fish. I spend a lot of time wanting to write stories and I'm sure I'm going to be a horrible husband; too set in my ways. Can't we just have an iguana, or a tree frog, maybe three? In a tank. No fur. No fur.